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“Perspective?” My eyebrows raise. “Don’t tell me you are one of those types.”
“What types?”
“Wishy-washy ones.”
“If by that you mean, open-minded?—”
“Please.” My voice is a droll tone. It's the way it usually sounds in my head, and not the tone I should use in public. “What other keywords have you stuffed into your dating profile?”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What awildlyirrelevant question to ask me."
Touché.
“Should I assume you are single?”
“Does it matter?”
Yes.“No. Why would I care?”
“You are being openly blunt,” he observes. “That's new.”
We’re waiting for the last traffic light. The walking tour meeting point is on the other side, but I wonder, “New… as in, it shocks you?”
His mouth turns a smidge down. Is he forming an answer? Is it a long one or an unfavourably short one?HadHuan had an opinion of me prior to this trip?
Are you going to say boring like what those social media influencers think?
Not that I feel particularlyun-boringnow. I’m asking him—somewhat subtly, somewhat not subtly—what he thought about my personality prior to him hijacking this trip. Toss myself onto these blasted London roads, I don’t want to be this person. It’s tooWoman Needs Validation From Handsome Stalker Supposedly Here to Protect Her.
“Here’s what I think of you,” I say, wrestling my power back before he finds his answer.
“Go on.”
The crosswalk opens. Saved by the light.
I smirk.
He must be analyzing the degree of my smile, considering how hard he stares at it.
“Maybe, I’ll tell you later,” I boast.
I practically skip the last bit of way to the walking tour, trying to calm myself. What I want to do is meet someone incredible andnewtoday. That’s why I’m solo-travelling—minus the Huan shadow—so spectacular chance encounters happen to me. And sure, like Nim said, maybe I am treating this trip as if I’m in a movie about travelling, but didn’t a TikTok poet once say,Treat yourself like the main character?
There's no main character energy in flirting with a man paid to follow you.
Reminding myself of that, I measure potential as I assess the huddled group of twelve-ish people standing before the Tower of London; historic prison, majestic fortress, and home of the Crown Jewels. The walking tour is one of those drop-in ones where anyone can show up at any point. A slim man with abald head, red beard and sizeable lanyard is going on about “… London’s juxtaposition of old and brand new in one place. Look to the sky and your photos will include the Roman Wall, the Tower, and the Shard. Truly spectacular.”
On cue, cameras come out. People take photos from all different angles. I take out my phone too, and it strikes me like invisible turbulence.Wow, I’m in London. I’m standing in front of a castle with turrets. This is not a fever dream, but real. The tour-guide says, “I am pointing out the eighteen acre murder site of Sir Thomas More, Anne Boleyn, and several spies that got shot during the Second World War.”
How did I get here?is a question I sink into as majestic London landmarks impress down upon me. I’ve travelled, but not like this. A multi-bodied Thames gushes around a brickwork city, Tesco red and blue colors pop everywhere, and Sunday roast is advertised at pubs which are next to more crouched over pubs. The air is old and wintry by the water and somehow also tastes like notes of butter chicken skipping over the wind. Everything is fully fledged and absolutely bonkers busy. I take photos of all I can see, and then our walking tour moves on.
The Monument is next. Our tour guide points to the jutting stone column decorated by dragons and a flaming golden orb at the top. “It commemorates the Great Fire of London 1666. A symbol of defiance to anyone who thinks to take our city, whether it be nature or the Roman Catholics back in the day.” Cheekily, he adds, “it’s also a tall dong of a secret telescope built by a scientist who snuck in an underground laboratory.”
I blink. This is London, and I’m absorbing history porn—but also absorbing everyone doing the same thing around me. A lot of people are grouped. An older man and woman wearing matching sun hats and cargo pants stand next to two women holding hands in Union Jack sweaters, who are next to a familytalking in what sounds like Italian, who are next to uni students making plans to go out later tonight.
I shift closer to the uni students. They are young, social, and I, too, would like a “mental night in Camden.” If only I can integrate myself into their loose circle and eke out an invitation without appearing desperate. I’ve got a million conversation starters in my head, but they feel like those transcribed heart candies they put out on Valentine's Day.Insufficient. Too sparse.
I brainstorm more possibilities as the walking tour surges forward.
